


So Long and Thanks For All the Booze

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunkenness, Gen, Post Reichenbach, alcoholic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson felt so sure that he and Sally Donovan were right, pointing NSY at Sherlock as a criminal mastermind. But Sherlock's death changes Anderson's mind--too little, too late</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Long and Thanks For All the Booze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221Btls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to my amazing friend, 221btls. What else would I get my writer friend? Your kind words started this slide down this slippery slope... hold on friend. We're in this together.

 I seen a lot of drunks in my time, and I got a lot more years behind this bar than I got ahead of me. Drunks. Old, young, rich, poor. Don't matter. Skin color don't matter. Who your parents are don't matter. In the end the bottle gets em all. 

This bloke though. He come into my pub one afternoon in June. Mad. Like crazy mad, not the other kind of mad. Dressed like the others from Scotland Yard who come in with their fancy shirts and ties, but I never seen this one before. Something in his eyes scared me. He orders a shot of whiskey, right? Boom. Down it goes. Then another. He has four in an hour, and I cut him off. Tell him, look mate. You ain't gotta go home but you can't stay here. I wasn't sure he was even gonna make it to the kerb. At least he was a skinny bloke--couldn't weigh maybe 11 stone. If I had to, I could pour him into the taxi.

When he staggers to the door, I hear one of the NSY blokes yell out, "Hey Anderson! Good day huh? That freak finally admitted he was a liar. Good riddance. Didn't need some arsehole like him doin our job.'

Drunk looks at the bloke, told him to go do something to himself that I won't repeat case some birds are readin this. Slid out the door. Trips and falls on his face, half out the door. Wouldn't take no one's help.

A few days later he's back, sittin right at this end of the bar leaning against the wall. Orders a shot. Throws it back. Nurses the next three of em. Don't talk to no one. Don't look at the birds. Or the blokes. Just watches the telly when the news comes on. I kicked him out at ten. No cryin at my pub.

Some of the regulars said he works at New Scotland Yard. Anderson's his name. Part of that whole “Great Sherlock Holmes” suicide. Sorry about those air quotes. You know that detective who lied about everything and jumped off St. Bart's. It was all over the papers that week. Said that this Anderson pointed the detective in charge toward Holmes. How did the paper say it? That the evidence of Holmes' involvement was overwhelming.

At first, Anderson just came now and then. After work I guess, cus he'd wear a shirt and tie. Then it was more than just a couple times a week. Staying til closing. Drinking more. One night, the fancy shirt and tie was gone. Never saw em again. Switched it for some crazy shirt with one of those number signs. It said #IBelieveInSherlock. I don't get paid to make judgments, just to pull beers and pour drinks. But that bloke was barmy.

He's here most every night. Pays his tab every day, but I don't know if he's got a job or what he even does. He don't work for Scotland Yard hung always over like that. Judgin from his personal hygiene he ain't spending time showerin or doin laundry cus that 'I Believe In Sherlock' shirt needs a more that just a washin. I can tell what he ate this week. Isn't just food stains either. Had to get in real close one night to hear his order. No maybe about him needing a good bath. And a good scrub for his head. Haircut wouldn't hurt. It's all wild—like Einstein's.

I try to teach him what I learned bein here all these years. The bottle don't change nothin. It don't cure nothin. It don't make nothin better. Didn't never cure that look in his eyes. But he don't listen. Shut up Jimmy, he says, and pour me another.

Bein here so long, you get to know your regulars, what they do, how's the wife, kids are a handful, huh. Not him though. Kept to hisself. Like I said, no friends. But one night, I guess almost a year later, he says Jimmy, he says, I made a mistake. He won't even look at me. So I just keep wipin down the bar. He says, I gotta apologize to someone. Tell 'im I'm sorry. Do it, I says. Use that fancy smart phone you got there and call or text or twitter or whatever you do now. 

How do you tell a ghost you're sorry, Jimmy? he says. What the hell kinda question is that? Then he slips off the stool and heads for the door. A few of the NSY blokes say somethin nasty. Bout the anniversary of him bein wrong, how he killed Sherlock Holmes. He told em to fuck off and tried to leave. Took him two goes to get the door open. At least he stayed on his feet that night.

He still keeps to himself and don't even talk to me much. When he does, all he talks about is Sherlock Holmes. He holds these meetings here. Been doin it for over a year. They wear these #IBelieveInSherlock shirts. He stands up and tells em what a 'great man Sherlock Holmes was' and how 'no one understood him.' I ain't sure if it's better to see him up and talking or if I'm scared of how haunted—is that an okay word?--how haunted he is. At least they buy my pub grub. Not for me to judge the nutters.

Early one afternoon (I made him hold these meetings after lunch so people aren't put off by his...stank) he says to these people. I gotta say something, he says. I gotta tell you. Sherlock was murdered. And I did it. It was _my_ fault. They says... No. No way. Not you! Yes, he says. I'm as guilty as if I had pushed him off that building. _**I**_ put the police on him. _**I**_ killed him. Then Anderson falls into his seat. A couple of em almost seemed like they maybe wanted to comfort him but yeah. That smell.

What else could I do then? Anderson was a damn fool. He can't go around sayin he murdered someone. I call 999 and tell em someone in my bar says he killed Sherlock Holmes. Is he a threat to anyone or hisself? they asked. Aw hell no, I says. He's got his head down sobbing at a table.

I guess one of the “I Believe In Sherlock” people heard me call 999, cus they all took off. I guess they didn't believe in Anderson enough to hang around. Ten minutes later one bloke comes thru the door. After pullin beers for coppers for over 30 years, I can tell one in my sleep. This was classic copper, with his tan trench coat and his crew cut. Old. Older. Not old like me. But he sat next to Anderson at the table and patted his back. Comes to me for some bar napkins, and went back to the table. Anderson wipes his face and blew that big nose of his and keeps cryin.

I couldn't hear nothin much. Not that I was listenin, mind. Not your fault. You know that. We don't know why he did it, but you and Donovan didn't cause it. You didn't murder him. You gotta stop. At least Anderson stopped his caterwauling. 

Before he left, the old man says, and for God's sake Anderson. Get sober. Get a bath. Get a haircut. And come see me next week. Maybe I can get your job back. But not if you stink and are drunk. And he left.

I kinda thought maybe that kick in his arse would mean somethin. But after that detective left, Anderson did what he does best. Slid over to his stool at that dark corner where the bar meets the wall, and holds up the wall. Until he put his head down and starts crying again. Reminded him no bawling in my pub. Kicked him out even before tea time that day.

Nothin changed. Not for a coupla months. Fact, some days he was waitin when I opened at 11. Sat in his spot, but even far away from the taps, that crazy hair, that scraggly beard. It was keepin people from comin up to the bar to order. 

I says, Why don'cha listen to that copper that was here? Go home. Sleep. Take a shower, cuz mate, you stink. 

I'm used to people ignorin me, but he got that crazy look in his eyes again. He jumps up off his chair and tells me shut up and turn the telly up loud. 

Holy Fuck, he says, but you can't talk like that in my pub. We're a family place. That's Sherlock Fucking Holmes, he says. He's...Alive. He patted his hair down and tried to rub the wrinkles out of his shirt, like this man who was dead and isn't dead is gonna come here.

Jimmy, he says. Am I hallucinating? Am I that drunk?

Nope, I says. I guess he wasn't that dead.

I didn't kill him, he says. He stands up and jumps up and down, at least til he gets kinda green. Any fool knows jumping and whiskey don't mix. He sat down real gingerly.

The copper from the other day is on the telly with this Holmes, sayin it ain't no one's fault. No one's to blame except someone named Moriarty, who's already dead.

Then that Holmes gets in front of the reporters. Sounded all posh and fancy. All public school in his rich suit. Probably made just for him. Anyways, he says all posh, I must add this: No one is responsible for what happened except Moriarty and me. No one from New Scotland Yard. No man. No woman. Anyone who believes that they were responsible is appallingly stupid. They should stop whatever they're doing and get back to work. Now that I have answered your questions, he says, may we move on? I would like never to answer these questions again. 

Damn if that bastard didn't turn his back on the reporters and their cameras and their questions and walked away. Walked away and left that detective to explain it.

When I turned around, Anderson was gone. Left enough to cover his tab and a scrawl on a napkin that said Jimmy, so long, and thanks for all the booze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
